


Quenta Wilwarindo

by tabru



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama & Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 07:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11869941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabru/pseuds/tabru
Summary: When Glorfindel returned to Middle-earth to aid Gil-galad in the fight against Sauron, he never expected he'd end up falling in love with the king.





	Quenta Wilwarindo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcat/gifts).



**Quenta Wilwarindo**    
_The Tale of the Butterfly_

**I**

_The Year 1602 of the Second Age_

“Where do you think we are now?” Elrond mused, leaning on the starboard rail as he stared down at the foaming sea beneath them. It was nearing sunset, the sky in the east beginning to shift from blue to deep purple, and a riot of pink clouds hanging low to the western horizon.

“Hmm,” said Gil-galad, joining Elrond at the rail and studying the waves beneath them. “I’d say we were—”

Elrond rolled his eyes before the king could even finish. “Don’t—”

“—somewhere at sea,” Gil-galad finished.

Elrond sighed in defeat, bouncing his forehead against wooden rail.

“It hasn’t yet been a full day and you’ve already driven us all mad, Ereinion,” Círdan growled, coming up behind the king and striking him lightly on the back of the head. Ignoring Gil-galad’s exaggerated yelp, the ancient shipwright turned instead to Elrond and, in a much kinder voice, said: “We’re a few hours yet from Vinyalondë. We should arrive sometime before midnight. If you think you can survive until then.”

“It may be more difficult than I previously imagined,” Elrond said, lifting his head and glaring at Gil-galad, though there was a smile hidden behind his eyes.

“I don’t understand why Círdan likes you so much better than me,” Gil-galad said, indignant, tossing his dark, elaborately plaited hair over his shoulder. A jewel of some kind that was enmeshed within this tangle of braids caught the fading sunlight and lit up like a sudden flame at the back of the king’s head.

“It’s because Elrond is well-mannered and doesn’t annoy his fellow companions with foolish comments,” Círdan replied.

“Oh, he does so! He’s just careful about doing it in your hearing.”

“Well, that makes him a great deal wiser than you, doesn’t it?”

It was a familiar game between the three of them, and one that Glorfindel was still trying to figure out. It had been two years now since his return to Middle-earth, and in that time, he’d learned that the accustomed bickering and near-constant teasing between the king and his two closest friends belied a deep bond of love and affection between them that no power, good or ill, could sunder. The brotherly rivalry of Elrond and Gil-galad was more for show than any real competition between the two kinsmen, and their chief delight was in irritating Círdan as they competed for his favor. And Círdan was only too happy to oblige them with scoldings and insults, though Glorfindel had often marked in his short time among them that Círdan was always the first to come to either of their defense, and treated them both with the fondness of a grandfather doting on his favorite grandsons.

Gil-galad, Elrond, and Círdan had been more than happy to welcome Glorfindel into their confidence, and their enthusiasm for their new companion had surprised Glorfindel at first. And yet, honored as he was to be among them, he was still not quite sure how to navigate the tides of this friendship or where his place within it should be.

But for now Glorfindel sat at the bow of the ship, watching with amusement as these three friends lovingly derided one another, content to simply be among them. Eventually Círdan threw his hands up in exasperation and climbed the main mast, settling himself into the lookout high above them.

“Oh dear,” said Gil-galad mournfully, staring up at the disgruntled old mariner. “Do you think he’ll cast himself into the sea?”

“You’ve finally driven him to drown himself,” Elrond agreed solemnly.

“Actually,” Glorfindel said from his perch on the bow-rail, “I think he’s gone to contemplate drowning  _you_ , my lords.”

Elrond and Gil-galad both laughed in agreement and Glorfindel felt a warmth spread through his chest. Perhaps there was a place for himself among them after all.

Gil-galad sat down beside Glorfindel on the rail, close enough that their shoulders were touching, and together they watched as Elrond went to try to coax Círdan down from his perch.

“He loves you,” Glorfindel said after a few minutes of pleasant silence between them. “They both do.”

“I know,” Gil-galad said, and he smiled, a soft, slow smile that lingered in his sea-grey eyes. “And I love them, disrespectful and traitorous as they are.”

Glorfindel snorted at that, for he knew as well as Gil-galad did that Elrond and Círdan would sooner die than betray their king. He looked over at Gil-galad, meaning to say something else, but was distracted as the sun once again reflected brightly against the jewel in his hair.

“That’s very beautiful,” Glorfindel said, and almost without thinking reached out to touch it. It was a small, golden ornament, carved into the likeness of a butterfly, and the delicate legs were designed to hold one’s hair in place. But it was the wings of the butterfly that were the true wonder: they were studded with diamonds and amethyst, and opened and closed seemingly by their own will.

Gil-galad blinked in surprised as Glorfindel reached towards him, touching the back of his head, but then seemed to understand. “Ah, yes. The butterfly. Of course. Here…” He carefully removed it, his hair tumbling free about his shoulders as he did so, and he handed the small device to Glorfindel for him to inspect.

“How does it work?” Glorfindel asked, turning the butterfly around in his hands, trying to find the mechanism which caused the wings to flap on their own, but he could find none.

Gil-galad’s smile turned slightly sad as Glorfindel handed it back to him. “It was my mother’s. She never had a chance to tell me its secrets.”

“I saw similar devices in Gondolin,” Glorfindel said, watching as the king struggled in vain to clasp the butterfly to his unruly dark braids again. “But I could never divine their secrets, and the smiths only ever taught their methods to their apprentices. Please, let me…” He reached for Gil-galad once again and managed to corral the king’s wayward plaits back into their proper place. Gil-galad went still and stiff as a statue beneath his touch. “There, that’s better.”

“Thank you,” he said, relaxing again. “You wouldn’t believe the struggle I have with this.” He gestured to his hair, chagrined.

Glorfindel smiled, resisting the urge to touch the soft, dark locks again. “Hair is something the House of Finwë is famous for.”

“Among other things,” Gil-galad said with no small amount of self-deprecation in his voice.

“Some of its members turned out all right,” Glorfindel said, grinning.

“You are too kind.”

“I was speaking of Elrond.”

“Ai!” the king laughed, slapping him lightly. “Not you, too! Am I not sufficiently abused by them?” He pointed at Elrond and Círdan, who was now climbing back down onto the deck.

“I’ve spoken with Lord Ulmo,” Círdan said, “and he believes I am justified in wanting to throw you overboard.”

“Well, then,” Gil-galad said in a resigned voice, climbing up onto the rail, “I suppose I shall spare you all the trouble and do it myself.” He struck a dramatic pose as the last light of the setting sun settled upon his shoulders. “Farewell, my friends, I shall speak well of you to Mandos.”

“If you fall overboard, I’m not going in after you,” Elrond warned, laughing.

“Don’t worry, my lord, I will,” Glorfindel said.

“This is why you are the only one I like,” Gil-galad said, grinning down at him. “Let that be my final pronouncement! Glorfindel shall inherit my crown and kingdom!”

“Come down from there, Ereinion, you fool,” Círdan said, yanking him back onto the deck. “No one’s jumping off my ship while I’m on it. Now come, we’ve not eaten since the morning meal and you know how the Half-elf gets when he’s hungry.”

Elrond made an offended sound as both Gil-galad and Glorfindel laughed. “Yes, he gets so irritable, doesn’t he?” Gil-galad said.

“I most certainly do not!” Elrond said hotly, all but proving their point.

And so the game continued as it always did, the teasing and the jesting, and Glorfindel felt himself slipping into a spot that seemed to have always been open to him, as though this burgeoning friendship was as important a task as the one appointed to him by the Valar.

And in the starlit hours that followed as they drew closer to Vinyalondë, Glorfindel found he could not pull his thoughts from the way Gil-galad’s hair had felt between his fingers.

**II**

_The Year 1695 of the Second Age_

The times of merriment were few and far between as Sauron escalated hostilities in the East. And by the time war was declared, it had been several years indeed since Glorfindel or anyone else had felt in the mood to laugh or jest. Mirth had been bled out of their lives, replaced by a growing fear and anxiety. And as Sauron began his invasion of Eriador, Gil-galad knew he had no choice but to send his people into battle.

They stood before the main gates that led out of Lindon: the main army of Elves that would fight in the name of their king against the forces that currently assailed Eriador. At the front of this army was Elrond, his face grim and pale in the purple-grey light of dawn.

Standing before them on the great steps of the King’s House was Gil-galad, his face grim enough to rival Elrond’s. And standing with the king were many others of his court, including Círdan, none of whom would go to war that day. They would wait instead for the Númenórean reinforcements that, by the will of the Valar, would come soon.

“I do not like the idea of splitting the army into two separate forces,” Gil-galad had said the night before, as he and Glorfindel had walked alone together upon sandy paths between the high, grassy dunes of the coast. “But if Elrond’s half of the army is destroyed by Sauron, then at least we will not be left defenseless here in Lindon.”

“It will not come to that,” Glorfindel had said. “I will not let it come to that.”

Gil-galad had smiled at those words, but it was a bitter smile; indeed it had been long since his smile had been anything else. “I am sending you all to your deaths.”

“Do not say that,” Glorfindel had said, grasping the king’s shoulders tightly and turning him so that they faced each other directly. “You mustn’t despair. Elrond is as skilled a warrior as I have ever seen.”

“Even the greatest warrior can be bested when the odds are against him,” Gil-galad had said softly, and to Glorfindel’s surprise, the king had reached up to touch his face gently, almost reverently. “You are not invincible, my friend. And I fear neither is Elrond.”

“There is no choice,” Glorfindel had said, clasping the king’s hands in his own. “We must face Sauron. We must fight him, whether we are ready or not. And you must stay here and await the Númenórean fleet. And pray. Pray and hope for us all. There may still be a way to victory in this conflict that we cannot yet see.”

They had been standing very close in darkness of that moonless night, with only the stars above as witnesses to their conversation. And Glorfindel had almost forgotten that their hands were entwined together until Gil-galad had pulled his away. But before Glorfindel could feel even a modicum of disappoint at the loss of that contact, he had watched as Gil-galad had lifted his hands to his hair and had pulled from his dark locks the golden butterfly that he often wore.

“Here,” he had said, pressing the device into Glorfindel’s hands. “Take this with you.”

“Why?” He hadn’t meant to ask that, not in that way, but he’d been so surprised by the gesture that all he could manage was that single word, that blunt response: Why?

“Because I want you to have it.” He had sounded almost annoyed.

“I…I cannot take this. It was your mother’s. I know how dear it is to you.”

“ _You_  are dear to me,” the king had said, his grey eyes full of a sudden fervent light. “Dearer than you can know. Take it not as a gift, but as a promise. A promise that we will meet again in Eriador. When I bring the remainder of the army east, promise me you will be there waiting. And promise me Elrond will be there with you.”

“I promise,” Glorfindel had said, for he hadn’t known what else he could say. He’d known what he’d wanted to say, he’d wanted to say all the thousands of little things that he kept stored in his heart, locked away only to be examined in secret. But he couldn’t say those things. Not out loud. “I will be there with Elrond when you arrive.”

The butterfly had still been sitting in the palm of his hands, its purple wings glittering in the starlight, when Gil-galad had kissed him. It had been so quick and unexpected that Glorfindel almost couldn’t believe it had really happened at all. One moment the king’s lips were on his, the next moment they were gone. Quicker than breathing. Quicker than blinking.

And then Gil-galad had turned swiftly and walked away back up the path towards the King’s House, leaving Glorfindel alone under the stars.

And so now it was that they stood before the king and his house and his court, an army ready to leave to war. And the sun in the east was dim and overcast and full of foreboding.

Gil-galad spread his arms wide and spoke a blessing and all those present responded in kind. And when he finished, Elrond stepped forward, walked up the great stairs to where the king stood, and bowed low before him.

Gil-galad placed his hands on Elrond’s arms and pulled him back up to his feet and into an embrace. He kissed him on either cheek, but what words he said Glorfindel could not hear. The king’s face was full of grief, and behind him Círdan and many others wept, but Elrond’s face was stern and determined as he turned back around and descended once more to where the army was waiting.

Then he gave the signal to depart and he led the way out of the city without looking back.

But Glorfindel looked back, just once, to see the king staring down at him. Their eyes locked, and the promise Glorfindel had made seemed to float in the air between them, as though it were a living thing, palpable and present. Then, slowly, he turned away and followed the army east to war, the butterfly in his hair glimmering in the pale morning light.

**III**

_The Year 1701 of the Second Age_

The victory celebration lasted through the night and into the early hours of the morning, Elves and Númenóreans and even a stray Dwarf or two singing and dancing and feasting under the bright stars. The war had been won, Sauron had retreated back into the East, and King Gil-galad, his army, and the armies of the Númenóreans had ridden victorious into the Valley of Imladris to the relief of those who had sought refuge there.

Gil-galad had greeted Elrond with elation when he had found him in Imladris, alive and well beyond all hope (though the war and siege had left its scars on the Half-elf in other—less visible—ways). And Elrond, who had always kept a tight rein on his emotions in public, had nearly wept for joy to see his king again.

There had been many happy reunions that day, and a great feast had followed, but throughout it all, Glorfindel had kept a safe distance between himself and the Elven king. Their eyes had met several times throughout the evening’s celebrations, but always Glorfindel would look away quickly, the memory of soft lips against his own as real as when it had happened.

And still he wore the butterfly in his golden hair.

It was now the hour before dawn, when the world was quietest, before bird song and sunlight. The songs of celebration had died away, and most of the celebrants were either asleep (from too much wine), nearly asleep (from too much wine), or walking slowly among the stars in the final hour of night (probably drunkenly from too much wine). A fair voice was singing a song to Elbereth, and as Glorfindel looked about to find the source of this music, he saw Celeborn sitting high in a tree, the light of the stars shining upon his face.

Elrond, however, was fast asleep, curled in a chair by the fire, and Glorfindel watched as Gil-galad put a cloak around Elrond’s shoulders and kissed his cheek. The king smiled down at him fondly, then looked up. His eyes met Glorfindel’s.

All evening, Glorfindel had been preparing for this moment by completely neglecting to prepare anything and instead drinking copious amounts of wine. This was going to go well.

“You’ve been avoiding me all evening,” Gil-galad said, and though his tone was one of feigned resentment, there was a secret hurt that lingered in his starlit eyes. He closed the distance between them in a few long strides and came to stand before Glorfindel, his face expectant.

Glorfindel was now faced with several problems. The first problem was he did not know what to say to the king, or what he should do. Should he pretend nothing had changed between them? Should he act as though the kiss had never happened? Should he simply hand the butterfly back to its owner, the symbol of a promise now fulfilled?

The second problem was that Glorfindel was, admittedly, very drunk. Which, ironically, had been originally intended as a solution for problem one, but had now escalated beyond his control. _In the future, I will have to remember that wine is not a solution to one’s problems_ , he thought. _Oh that’s good, actually, I should write that down later._

The final problem was the most confounding of all however, for Glorfindel found that he wanted nothing more than to kiss the king again. Here. Under the stars. In front of whatever festive stragglers may be watching. In front of Celeborn who was still singing high above them in the trees. In front of Elrond who was asleep, so he didn’t actually count. In front of Círdan who was…where was he? It didn’t matter. _Where was I going with this?_

Glorfindel rubbed a hand over his face. “I have a problem,” he admitted. “Three, actually. Three problems.”

Gil-galad raised his eyebrows and folded his arms across his chest. “Oh? Can I help?”

“No. Yes.  _No_. Perhaps.”

“Glorfindel—”

“Problem number one!”

“Oh, dear—”

“I…don’t know what to do with this.” He tugged the butterfly free from his hair and thrust it back at Gil-galad. “I mean, it’s yours. So, here. Thank you. It’s lovely. Thank you.”

Gil-galad took it from him, looking cautiously at Glorfindel. “Are you…?”

“Drunk? Yes. That is the number.  _Problem_. Problem number two. So, we shouldn’t…it’s  _your_  fault, but we shouldn’t do this right now.”

“Do what right now?”

“This,” Glorfindel said, and crossed what little distance still remained between them and pressed his lips to the king’s. “This is problem number three,” he said, but the words were muffled because his mouth was on Gil-galad’s mouth. And it was a problem.

And then came the mortification. A slow, creeping heat that began in his chest and spread to his face, and Glorfindel pulled away from the king, horrified and embarrassed.

“I…I didn’t mean to…to do that,” he said, trying to move away, but Gil-galad caught his hands and held him gently in place. His eyes were large and dark in the purple light of predawn.

“But did you want to?” Gil-galad asked, his voice soft and low and barely discernable.

Glorfindel looked down at their hands, clasped together as they once had been on a night not so different from this one. Had he wanted to? How could Glorfindel explain, how could he ever put into words, how he had wanted nothing else for years. Years and years of closeness but not too close, of touching but not lingering, of dreaming but never daring to hope. Glorfindel squeezed their hands more tightly together. “Yes.”

Glorfindel did not dare meet the king’s eyes, but could hear the smile in Gil-galad’s voice as he replied: “So have I.”

“What happens now?” Glorfindel asked after a long moment, still looking down at their entwined hands. He felt very tired suddenly. He shut his eyes.

Gil-galad chuckled and Glorfindel opened his eyes again to look at him. “You, my friend, are going to go to bed. And then tomorrow, we shall talk more.”

“I’m going to marry you,” Glorfindel said as the king guided him back into the main house. And it didn’t matter suddenly that the words had come out slightly slurred or that he probably would regret saying it in the morning. All that mattered was the response of Gil-galad’s merry laughter, a sound that filled him with a warmth he never wanted to lose.

**IV**

_The Year 3440 of the Second Age_

Mordor was dark, grim, and desolate in its every hateful detail. The thick, grey fumes that billowed from Orodruin blocked out all light from moon or sun or star, and the smell was that of rotting flesh and volcanic sulfur. It was a wasteland born from the tortured imagination of a fallen Maia. And when the fighting was going on, it became a horrid pit of terror, with nothing but the screams of the dying to fill the emptiness of that lifeless, hopeless desert.

It was not the usual place for a wedding.

During times of war, it was common for Elves to forego the normal wedding ceremonies and traditions and instead join themselves together without any feast or celebration. Just two people, joined together in body and spirit, with no one but themselves to serve as witnesses. It was in this way that Glorfindel bound himself to Ereinion Gil-galad.

In the dark sanctuary of the king’s tent, Glorfindel and Gil-galad lay tangled together on the cot, the king’s dark head resting against his lover’s chest. Glorfindel stroked the silky, black hair, combing his fingers through its many curls and tangles. “ _Guren_ ,” he whispered.

“ _Hervenn nín_ ,” Gil-galad replied, and rolled over so that he was fully on top of his husband, his arms on either side of Glorfindel’s head, pinning him down against the cot. “I’ve decided to make a royal decree.”

“Hmm?” Glorfindel tilted his head in question, but instead of receiving any answer, the king kissed him, long and slow and deep. And Glorfindel relished the taste of him.

When at last the king came up for air, Glorfindel said: “What sort of decree?”

“What?”

“You said you wanted to make a decree—?”

“Oh!” he said, laughing. “Yes.” He sat up, straddling Glorfindel and bucking his hips teasingly against him. “I’ve decided you’re not allowed to ever leave this tent.”

Glorfindel could feel his body beginning to react once again to Gil-galad’s incessant gyrations. “That, my love, may prove to be difficult.”

“Nonsense, _melethron_. I see no reason why we cannot stay here forever.”

Glorfindel laughed and sat up suddenly, their chests pressed together, their legs wrapped about each other. “I believe if we stay in here much longer, we will be sorely missed.”

“No one would even notice we were gone.”

“Ah, yes. It’s not as though the king’s absence would be in any way conspicuous.”

“Exactly,” Gil-galad said, lowering his head to nibble at his lover’s collar bone. Glorfindel shivered in response. But despite his growing arousal, he knew that they could not stay here all day, royal decree or not.

“ _Meleth nín_ ,” Glorfindel said, taking Gil-galad’s face in his hands and kissing him gently. “You are needed.”

“…In this tent with you,” Gil-galad finished.

Glorfindel sighed and pressed his face against the king’s neck. “You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m—” He stopped short.

Glorfindel looked up at him in question and saw that his eyes were wide and fixed on something behind Glorfindel. He turned quickly to see Elrond entering the tent, his face exhausted and his shoulders slumped. Someone else’s blood, dried to a dark brown, was splattered across his outer robes. He sat down with a sigh in a chair by the king’s desk and shook his head.

“I don’t know anymore, Ereinion,” he said, his voice hoarse from misuse. “I’m not sure how much longer we can—” He looked over at the cot for the first time since entering the tent. His mouth fell open in shock.

Glorfindel could only imagine that his own expression looked somewhat similar.

“Elrond,” Gil-galad said, in a tone so calm he must have been having an out-of-body experience, “won’t you come in.”

Elrond blinked and snapped his mouth shut. Then he opened it again. Then shut it again. At last, he found his voice and said, in a somewhat strangled tone, “My lord…I didn’t realize you were…you were…”

“Having sex with my husband?” Gil-galad said sardonically.

Glorfindel took the opportunity to carefully pull the blankets up around their waists.

“I…wasn’t aware you had a husband,” Elrond said. “And Glorfindel no less!”

“Well, it only just happened this morning, you see.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Elrond said, his tone beginning to shift from mortified to sarcastic. Glorfindel knew well that sarcasm was often a shield Elrond used for any hurt he wished to hide. “I would have bought you a wedding present.”

“Where would you have gotten a wedding present?” Gil-galad asked, waving his hands about himself. “The boulder next door?”

“I’m sure the Dark Lord would have been happy to oblige me. He’s so very good at crafting jewelry these days—”

“I’m sorry,” Glorfindel interjected. “What is happening?”

“You tell me!” Elrond said. “I’ve been working in the healing tents for eight hundred years—”

“Eight hundred years?” said Gil-galad.

“Elrond, calm down—” said Glorfindel.

“—and I come out to find  _you_  and  _you_! Together! Married!”

If Glorfindel didn’t think things could get any worse, he was wrong. For Círdan chose that moment to enter the tent as well.

“Does no one know how to knock in this accursed land?!” Gil-galad cried. Glorfindel pulled the blankets all the way up to his neck in horror.

“Everyone knows you can’t knock properly on a canvas tent, Ereinion,” Círdan said, scornfully. “Now get dressed, we’re late for a meeting with Elendil concerning the northern defensive flank.”

“Círdan!” Elrond said. He gestured wildly to Gil-galad and Glorfindel.

Círdan gave Elrond a fond, patient smile. “Yes, it’s about time, isn’t it?” He looked over at Glorfindel and Gil-galad as they hurriedly dressed themselves with as much dignity as they had left. “I thought I was going to have to stage an intervention if they didn’t hurry up and get it over with.” He looked back at Elrond. “I’ve excused you from the meeting since you’ve not slept in a week. I’ll brief you on it once you’ve rested. Now come along.” And he ushered the bewildered Half-elf out of the tent.

“Wedding present,” Gil-galad muttered to himself as he shoved his feet into his boots. “Can you believe him? A Mordor wedding present for our Mordor wedding.”

But Glorfindel couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt bubbling in the pit of his stomach. “We should have told him, Ereinion.”

Gil-galad sighed. “I know. But I didn’t want him to feel guilty about keeping you in Imladris. He already felt guilty enough about Eregion and Celebrimbor and…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I’ll make it up to him.”

Gil-galad was right, but it did little to ease Glorfindel’s conscience. The whole purpose of Glorfindel’s return to Middle-earth had been to help in the fight against Sauron, and since Imladris, more so than Lindon, was strategically placed to do just that, he had stayed with Elrond in the mountains, rather than return with the king to the coast. It had all seemed so logical at the time.

“I didn’t realize you’d told Círdan,” Glorfindel said suddenly.

“I didn’t,” Gil-galad said. And then suddenly he exclaimed: “Wedding present!”

Glorfindel frowned at him. “I’m not going to let you torture Elrond over this forever.”

“No, no, I mean I have one. A wedding present. For you.” He went to his desk and opened the top drawer. “It’s not much. I mean it is, but it’s more sentimental than…well, anyway, I’ll get you a proper gift when the war is over.”

He turned to Glorfindel and resting in the palm of his hand was the little butterfly ornament with the amethyst wings.

“Are you sure?” Glorfindel asked.

“I am sure,” Gil-galad said. “It’s my promise to you. To love you always. To be with you always.”

He reached for Glorfindel and clasped the butterfly to his golden braids. “It is yours, as I am yours. Forever.”

**V**

_The First Year of the Fourth Age_

When Ereinion Gil-galad awoke for the first time, remade and released from the Halls of Mandos, his first coherent thought was of Glorfindel. A glimmer of golden light caught his eye and he turned his head in expectation, but it was not the shine of his lover’s golden hair, but rather a ray of sunlight passing through the high windows of his chambers.

Ensconced within the calm and beauty of the Gardens of Lórien, Ereinion began the long, arduous healing process as he came to terms with his previous life, his death, and the age he had spent in Mandos, formless, waiting to be reincarnated. It was more difficult than he had thought it would be, more difficult than Glorfindel had made it seem, and he wondered now if perhaps his husband had tried to spare him the hard truth of his own rebirth.

There was so much to relearn and rediscover about dwelling within a body, so much that he had forgotten. And time itself was perhaps the strangest concept of all. There were some days that seemed to pass as swiftly as the blink of an eye, and others that seemed to linger for years without end. Sometimes Ereinion could not sleep, other times it was all he could do.

It was not all difficult, however, for he had many visitors and many happy reunions with friends and family. And Valinor itself was more beautiful than he had words to describe, more glorious than any dream of Elf or Man could envision. There was no war here, no shadow of evil, no malignant threat. Just peace and joy and love. And hope. Hope that those who were not yet in Valinor would soon arrive.

***

He had been dozing outside in the garden beneath the bright noon sun when he first heard the news.

“Ereinion,” said a beloved voice, and he blinked to see Celebrían standing above him, her own scars, both physical and spiritual, having been healed in Lórien. “They’re coming.”

Ereinion stared at her for a moment, trying to understand what she meant. She was practically vibrating with excitement. His eyes widened in sudden understanding.

“Elrond?”

“Yes,” she said, and as she knelt beside him in the grass tears sprang into her eyes. “And my mother. They say that the Ring-bearers are sailing home.”

Gil-galad clasped her hands, his own tears sliding down his cheeks. How easily he cried nowadays. How easily his emotions could be stirred within himself. “And Glorfindel? Is he…? Did they say…?”

Celebrían shook her head. “I do not know for certain. But Sauron is defeated, and I do not believe Elrond would leave Glorfindel behind. He will bring him home.”

Ereinion prayed she was right.

***

With each day Ereinion grew stronger and more like to his old self, though at times he still felt restless and tired and confused, too many old memories jumbling about in his head, too many old wounds. Rest was often the best remedy, and Estë and her handmaids were all too happy to guide the weary souls that dwelt in Lórien to sleep. And so sleep Ereinion did. Sometimes, he would awake to find his mother or father sitting beside him, and other times he would awake alone, but see evidence that someone had been with him while he slept: an open book of poems left upon a table, a glass of wine, a half-eaten bowl of summer berries.

And then one morning Ereinion awoke and saw something glittering on the table by his bed: purple and gold and adamant, its wings opening and closing slowly. A small ornament. A butterfly. Something he’d once feared lost to him forever. And in that moment he knew.

And he smiled.


End file.
